May 2011

05/31/2011

We weren’t at the party for more than five minutes before there was glass all over the floor and Kai was soaked in wine.

I’m telling you, my diaper bag was still slung over my shoulder. I was still wearing my jacket.

I didn’t see what happened, but the factors appeared to be a party guest with a glass of wine, and the boy.

The smashing of the glass was startling. Kai’s howl was even more startling. I thought he’d been cut, but it turns out it was just the wine. In his eyes. And his nose. And hair. And all over his shirt. And his pants.

Once I set Ryan down and got a towel for Kai’s face and determined that he didn’t need stitches, I was prepared to be—ahem—annoyed with the party guest, and that was when I saw the butterfly net. That Kai had been playing with. That he had used to catch, not a butterfly, but a glass of white burgundy.

Later, the kids were playing in the backyard, and Kai found a hose with a spray nozzle attached to it. Approximately three seconds after that, he was soaked from head to toe in water. This rinsed off most of the wine, saving me from any potentially uncomfortable questions from DCFS later on, which was good.

One of the girls at the party came up to him and asked to share the hose. He looked down at it, and for a split second, I thought he was going to give it to her, but Kai did what any red-blooded American boy would do.

He turned the hose on her, soaking her dress and causing her to squeal like, well, like a little girl.

It was kind of ungentlemanly, but being raised by parents who have gone to see each of the Jackass movies in the theater on opening day allows you an amount of leeway. I apologized to the girls’ parents, but my laughter probably made me sound insincere.

:::

As we were leaving, I said goodbye to the birthday girl’s grandfather, a close family friend, and gave him a hug.

“She’s a good baby,” he said of Ryan, who was toddling down the hallway in her faux fur. “She can entertain herself.”

“She is good. She’s so good,” I said. I turned to look at him. “I worry sometimes, though. I feel bad that—“

He cut me off. “I know what you’re going to say and don’t even think about it. You feel bad that her brother takes so much energy and money and time.”

I nodded. That is exactly what I feel badly about.

“She’ll be just fine,” he said.

I so want to believe that.

“I hope so,” I said. “I keep thinking that her gift will be that she won’t have the same struggles that Kai has.”

“Look,” he said. “In some ways, he’ll be her big brother. In some ways, she’ll be his big sister. She’ll understand that he needs a little more.”

I thought about that, wondering if, when the dust settles and the kids are grown, if she would truly understand, if I will have been good enough at my job to remind her every day how much we love her, how amazing she is. I so want to believe what he said.

05/27/2011

Every day, I drop Kai off at school into the care of some volunteer parents who run a program called the Kiss and Go. I pull up to the curb, the parent opens the door, unhooks Kai from his car seat and escorts/hefts/cajoles/pushes/pulls our 39-pound, 40-inch-high bundle of crazy into the school.

Each time I pull up, I wonder whether these parents are like, “Oh, shit. There’s Kai.”

Sometimes he doesn’t want to get out of the car. Sometimes he’ll get out of the car but will become a human puddle on the sidewalk and refuse to move. Sometimes, he’ll say something in jibberish to the volunteers. Sometimes, he’ll stare into space. Sometimes he’s got an umbrella deployed in the car, and you have to extract him and the umbrella at the same time, keeping in mind that the opening is smaller than the umbrella and that Kai won’t let you help him. Sometimes he’s eating toast. Always there are several inches of popcorn and French fries scattered on the floor of the backseat.

Most of the time, Kai feels completely typical to me. Because this is my typical. And then we will interact with the world at large and I’m like, “Oh. Oh, yeah. That’s how we’re different.”

:::

Last night, at the PTO meeting, I sat next to Jennifer, one of the parent volunteers. Kiss and Go came up in conversation, and I couldn’t resist.

“So, um, do you guys see me coming and think, ‘Here we go?’” I asked.

Jennifer smiled. “We all know Kai,” she said. It was a hedge, but her smile was warm and there was no sarcasm in her tone.

And I left it at that. I delivered my speech, I sat back down.

After the meeting, there was a reception for the new parents, and Kai came up again.

“That first time I met him,” Jennifer said, “when I got him out of your car and he lay down on the sidewalk, I was like, what on Earth am I supposed to do now?”

“I know,” I said.

“But now, I’ll just swing him up on my shoulder or jump him to the door.”

“That’s what I would do!” I exclaimed.

One of the teacher assistants chimed in. “What would we do without Kai? How boring would it be around here?”

I smiled.

“Today I walked in to the coat room and found a hot pink fedora hanging from his hook,” she said. “It was the highlight of my day.”

Another teacher assistant came up. “Who are you talking about?”

“Kai.”

The new TA laughed. “Kai! Today a girl tried to get in his face and he gave her what-for, and I said, ‘Well, that’s Kai and you invaded his space and you need to respect his needs,’ and she said, ‘Oh. Kai, I’m sorry,’ and Kai said, ‘Underpants.’”

:::

Later, as I was leaving, Jennifer hugged me warmly. “Everyone has popcorn and French fries on the floor of the car,” she said.

I tried to friend her tonight, but she’s not on Facebook. I think I’ll friend her for real.

05/25/2011

So the Rapture didn’t happen, which is cool, whatever. I guess the guy Harold Camping was totally surprised not to go to Heaven on Saturday, and has indicated that the real, drop-dead date is October 21, forget what he said before about May 21. So we’ve got five months to repent.

I’ll go ahead and put that on my to-do list.

And speaking of my to-do list…

This week I’m attending part of an autism conference. I never thought I’d be an autism conference kind of a gal, but there you go. The particular seminar I’m interested in is about special education law, which is timely because on Friday, I’m meeting with the Director of Special Education Services for Chicago Public Schools about a certain hide-and-seek playing pre-schooler.

I’ve been trying for months to get permission to bring a private therapist into the classroom to help Kai with various behavior problems that impede his ability to learn, such as task avoidance. There is some question about whether or not I’m allowed to do this, so I’ve been knee-deep in CPS’ policy on the Least Restrictive Environment, their Bulletins on Consideration of Autism When Writing Individualized Education Plans, long and dry passages from the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act. I have a strategy, an argument with supporting evidence and a plan. I even have a contingency plan. But I have no idea what to expect.

I also don’t know what to wear.

In the middle of all of this, I have to go to the new parent orientation at Kai’s school and make a plug for the PTO. At least, that meeting is followed by a cocktail party.

I was sort of acknowledging on the long ride home from occupational therapy today about how much time is spent thinking about Kai, strategizing, hypothesizing, theorizing—about IEPs and therapies and what to do next. I’ve been considering sending him to a DAN (Defeat Autism Now!) doctor or similar developmental specialist, for example, to think about biomedical interventions, because you know. Maybe. And I was thinking about biomed and how sometimes Kai gets up at midnight and can’t get back to sleep for the rest for the rest of the night and about special education law and about this meeting on Friday and other parts of the autism conference I want to attend and, and, and, and.

I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself, exactly, just wishing I had more time. More time to follow a line of thought before I had to haul both kids into the OT place. More time on the CPS web site in between phone calls from the insurance adjuster and the PTO president and Ryan waking up from her nap.

:::

When I got home today, I opened up Facebook. A friend of the family lives near Joplin, Missouri, and this 15-month-old baby named Skuylar is missing:

He was ripped from a family member's arms by a 200 mph tornado.

:::

So, yeah. I worry that I’m doing the right things, that I’m doing enough things. And there’s always something else to consider, some new avenue, new doctor, new meeting, new plan. And for every good trip to the park there’s a trip like the other day, where I have to carry Kai kicking and screaming to the car and I need to remember to talk to the behaviorist and did I remember to call our insurance about group therapy over the summer and what am I going to do with Ryan while we’re there and are we going to try and do soccer or art lessons and what do you wear to recruit for the PTO?

05/23/2011

The four of us enjoyed some time on the playground yesterday, Kai having worn us down to the very nub with his near constant pleading—“Playground? Playground?” (voice catches) “How ‘bout playground?”

So after the various chores were done and Ryan emerged from a nap, we headed out into the warm afternoon.

Another family at the playground was playing with a bat and several balls. When they were done, they put the equipment in a pile near the slide, and Kai stole the bat and began hitting the balls golf-style, causing them to scatter.

Scott and I absentmindedly corralled the balls once, then twice, then—

“Hey, Kai. That’s enough. Those aren't ours.”

He did it again.

“One more time, and we’re going home.”

And then! OMG! It was amazing! He said he was sorry and gathered up the balls! When he was done he gave me a foot massage!

Sigh. Obviously, we had to go home.

Kai, of course, put up a big protest, throwing himself on the ground and crying. Scott and I dug in.

“Kai,” I explained, “you didn’t listen, and now we have to go home.”

Then he tried to take the basketball away from Ryan and alternated trying to take her ball and throwing himself on the ground. In the end, I had to carry him out of the park kicking and screaming.

A couple walked by, their arms entwined, both sets of eyes following the action.

They were quiet as they passed us, and then the man turned his head toward the woman.

So not much happened this week. I went to a PTO meeting and for some reason, I am now the new co-secretary. Like I have time for that, even if it is a co. The hard part about going to the PTO meetings is making sure I take a shower and wear something that looks like I leave the house ever, and, like the maternity ward, it’s a good idea to wear your wedding ring to avoid a Harper Valley situation.

Later, Kai drew all over his face with a marker and then built this lovely pyramid out of cans:

Our ABA therapist asked me about Kai’s propensity to draw on his face.

See here:

Here:

And Here:

“I’ve seen kids do that for attention,” she said.

“That’s not why he does it,” I replied. “I think he just likes the way the marker feels against his skin.”

A lot of kids on the Spectrum have sensory issues. Some of them can’t stand to be touched, or the feeling of clothes on skin. Kai is the opposite, he’s a sensory seeker. He craves input—deep pressure, weight on his head, being upside down. He likes the feeling of things, and the tighter, the heavier the better.

His sensory seeking behavior doesn’t bother us in the least, though we do have to remember to tell the babysitter that it’s okay if Kai wants to wear his snow boots to bed. When I’m not looking, he’ll put on his old Thomas sneakers, which are a full three sizes too small, to get that pressure on his feet.

The other day, he climbed into the bottom part of the grocery cart, the part where you put the cases of soda and the dogfood. He lay on his belly the entire time we were at the store, watching the floor rush by from six inches off the ground. He was so quiet, I forgot he was there, and couldn’t figure out why the other shoppers where looking at my cart funny.

Mostly, we just take these things at face value, because who really cares if Kai wants to wear his boots in July? People are far more likely to think that I’m the weird one, and I’m usually too busy trying to keep the children from launching themselves out of the grocery cart to notice.

:::

I’ve been reading The Boy in the Moon by Ian Brown, which is an amazing and gut-wrenching memoir about raising a handicapped son. There’s a passage I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, where the father asks the mother if she wished her boy was “normal.” She replied that for herself, no, but for him, yes.

I’ve been turning that whole idea over in my head because I’ve always said that whatever we have to go through with Kai, all the therapies and the tantrums and the hope and the anxiety, I wouldn’t trade him. I wouldn’t want to change him one bit, to have a different Kai.

But would Kai? Would he want to be more “typical?” Does he recognize the ways that he's different? Does it bother him?

It’s impossible to imagine Kai being anything other than who he is. For one thing, he’s so awesome and for another, his quirks are so much a part of what makes Kai Kai and for yet another, I wouldn’t have any pictures like this:

05/17/2011

For the last couple of weeks, Ryan has been up at night, several times a night. 1 am. Then again at 3 am. Then again at 5.

I work two days a week at 6:15 am, necessitating a 5:30 alarm, and both times this week, she’s gotten up at 4:30. By the time I get her back to bed, it’s 5:15. I fall back into bed for all of 15 minutes before my alarm clock, which is always set at random stations because the kids fiddle with it, wakes me. On Wednesday it was “A Little Respect” by Erasure on the Retro channel. I love Erasure, but I smashed my fist onto the snooze button so hard I think I blew that song all the way back into the eighties.

Saturday was like the fourth or fifth day in a row I’d been up from 1 until 5, though, and I was starting to get a little sloppy.

At the gym, one of the women in my class asked me if my kids were downstairs in the daycare.

“No,” I said, as I gave her an adjustment. “Ryan was up all night so I couldn’t feed him.”

The woman looked confused. “Wait, what?” She asked.

Well, whatever. It made total sense to me.

Obviously, Ryan was up all night, and therefore slept in this morning. She didn’t wake up in time for me to feed her before I had to leave, and since they don’t allow food in the daycare, I left her with Scott so she could have breakfast.

I guess I left out some word-like things and stuff. I’m having some trouble communicating, apparently.

Also, Ryan is a girl.

:::

Many well-meaning people ask me why she is up all night.

Let me tell you that if I knew, I would fix it. Immediately.

List of reasons it is not:

1.) Hungry

2.) Full diaper

List of things it could be:

1.) Ears

2.) Teeth

3.) Growth spurt

4.) Indigestion from the introduction of dairy

5.) That song “Boyfriend” by Big Time Rush running through her head

6.) She is evil

:::

Here is a list of 8 things not to do when you’re sleep deprived:

1.) Drive a car

2.) Polish your handgun

3.) Have a discussion about your poor housekeeping skills with your husband

4.) Convert to or from any religion

5.) Go to Target without a list

6.) Perform open heart surgery

7.) Go on a special operation with Seal Team 6

8.) Parenting

:::

We were the only ones awake on Saturday night. I took her to the kitchen to heat up a bottle. I normally would just take her to bed with me, but I’d had some wine and couldn’t nurse her. (I was up late watching Vacation on HBO, even though we own this movie. Fun Judy Factoid: I bought it to give to Scott the day I told him I was pregnant with Kai. I knew he would freak the hell out. “See?” I said. “You can’t be any worse at fatherhood than this guy!” I don’t know if he found that comforting or not.)

Ryan was wearing her sleepsack in bed, which for those of you who don’t know, is a sort of bag for your baby to sleep in, because in 2011, blankets are up there with knives and guys with three names who live in Florida in terms of Dangerous Things for Your Baby. Anyway. I just left it on her. When she wears it, she looks like Maggie Simpson.

I turned on the TV. She got to pick the program, because she is now a Big Girl. We snuggled and watched Sesame Street. The number of the day was 17. Destiny’s Child sang a song. Ryan smelled like Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. In all, it wasn’t the worst way to pass an hour on a Saturday night.

:::

Sleep deprivation is funny because you don’t realize you have a real problem until you leave the house. Ryan and Kai don’t notice when I’m not making any sense. Or when I look like Hell. I’m not any less pleasant to be around, because I’m too tired to yell at anyone. It’s only when I try to interact with the rest of the world that I realize I’m in trouble. Everyone moves really fast. Especially in their cars.

:::

Anyway.

:::

One day, she’ll go to college and I’ll get some sleep then.

In the meantime, well, this is why God created Venti. She knew we’d be really, really tired.

05/16/2011

Please enjoy this actual e-mail exchange before and after our meeting last week, including a conversation between me and Doreen White, Executive Director of School X:

:::

To: MeFrom: Elyse BoyleCC: Doreen White

Attached please find Kai's report for our conference this afternoon. Please print out any copies you may want.

ThanksElyse Boyle, M.S., CCC-SLP

::

[Let me jump in here and say that I have never, ever one time ever, asked a client to print out her own shit for a meeting. Ever. Not once. Ever. ]

:::

To: Elyse BoyleCC: Doreen WhiteFrom: Me

Hello! I printed out the report and read it in advance of the meeting and I have just a few corrections.

These are probably not significant, but as the report cost me $450, I figured I'd pass them on to you :)

First, under "Medical History," Kai was a c-section, not a vaginal delivery. He IS on daily medications including pulmicort and melatonin.

Also, under "Behavioral Observations," I was NOT present for any portion of the evaluation. (Unless you mean I was downstairs, which I was :)

One other thing, you note that he's on a gluten-free diet (which he is), but it seems like he had a snack with some Cheerios during one of the sessions. I don't want to freak you out, here, as this is really no big deal--it's not like he's allergic, but we do notice behavior problems when he consumes wheat products. This, of course, is why he's gluten-free.

I look forward to hearing your recommendations this afternoon!

See you then,

Megan

:::

To: MeFrom: Elyse BoyleCC: Doreen White

We have made the corrections and will give you a new copy this afternoon

:::

Meeting. You know what happened.

:::

To: Elyse Boyle and Doreen WhiteCC: Scott JudyFrom: Me

Hello, Elyse and Doreen.

Thank you so much for your time this afternoon.

Kai will not be attending School X this summer. I don't think it's a good fit for him.

All the best going forward,

Megan Judy

:::

To: MeCC: Scott Judy, Elyse BoyleFrom: Doreen White

Megan,

You have time to digest what we discussed today so no need to quickly decide. Camp does not start until the end of June and out of our desire to support you we really hope that you can slow down and think about topics discussed without time pressure.

Families come from all around the world to attend our program. We have an excellent track record and a highly trained staff. We believe your son will make tremendous progress but we are obligated to share our extensive experience with you and attempt to help you navigate. Our intentions are pure and while it may feel confrontational to you as a parent, it would be a disservice if we did not share our thoughts.

Please vtake [sic] the next week to reconsider your initial thoughts.

Best,

Doreen White Executive Director School X

:::

To: Doreen White CC: Elyse Boyle, Scott Judy From: Me

Doreen,

Thank you so much. No further time is needed to determine that your program is not a good fit for Kai.

05/13/2011

“I hate to tell a mom who is excited about the progress that her kid is making that she’s not doing things right,” Doreen (not her real name) said.

My eyes narrowed. I’d just gotten done telling Doreen about some of the breakthroughs we’d had with Kai in the last month.

“Montessori?” she said, “For a kid like Kai? He only wants to do what he wants to do. What happens when he needs to do something he doesn’t want to do? Life is full of things you don’t want to do.”

She leaned back and folded her arms, simultaneously throwing down the gauntlet and declaring herself the victor in what, I was to understand, was a war.

I didn’t reply. I wasn’t there to debate my decisions with her. She’d never met Kai, hadn’t read the evaluations. I was there to see if I was going to put Kai in a summer language camp at her school.

“You say he’s flourishing. Our therapist was unable to get him to point to a bear and he kept crying and asking for mommy. What do they do at school when he doesn’t want to do something?”

Doreen is probably 50. She has had some work done. She was wearing one of those camphor patches you get at the acupuncturist. Her school is beautiful. The parent waiting area is full of leather couches and flat-screen TVs. The refrigerator is full of free Diet Coke.

“That’s something we work on,” I said, in a noncommittal way, thinking of Kai in a room with strangers, crying and calling out for me, unable to understand why I wasn’t coming to help him.

“What percentage of time do they spend avoiding a breakdown at this school?”

“What?” I asked, still distracted by the idea that Kai had been crying and calling for me. They hadn’t told me that during the evaluations. They hadn't allowed me to be present.

“At school,” she said impatiently. “What percentage of time do they spend avoiding a breakdown.” She repeated.

I paused for a second. What was she asking? And how was I supposed to know?

“I don’t know,” I said.

“What percentage of time do YOU spend avoiding a breakdown?”

This, of course, is a bizarre question. My son is four. We navigate potential breakdowns like soldiers in a minefield. My diaper bag doesn’t have diapers. It has breakdown avoidance material. Food. My iPhone. Crayons.

“I don’t know.”

“GUESS,” she barked, banging her fist on the table.

Were they going to want Kai in this language camp thing or not?

“Twenty-five percent,” I said, hoping she would shut up, we could end this meeting and I could go to the store. I had a sitter, after all. I made the number up.

“Twenty-five percent,” she hissed. “This is learned behavior and avoidance. Kai has abandonment issues, he avoids, he breaks down. I once sat in front of a door for an hour and a half while a kid was breaking down. ‘This is not going to work, I said. It’s not appropriate or acceptable.’”

The therapist who had evaluated him nodded. “Break down to break through,” she said, smiling sycophantically at Doreen.

I wished there was a trap door under my chair.

I’m not afraid of my choices or my parenting techniques holding up under scrutiny. On the contrary. I have a battery of therapists and experts that I rely on. People who know me, who know Kai. People who have spent hours and hours and hours evaluating, talking, working with Kai. I have pages and pages and pages of evaluations from Ph.Ds, MDs that informed and support my choices. I have a little boy who likes to go to school, who, when we’ve been away too long, puts on his backpack and sits by the door even though it’s 48 hours until we can go back. I’ve been fighting whatever is plaguing him for a long, long time. Doreen had never met him. “I don’t even like to read these reports until I meet the parents,” she said to me.

I didn’t want to debate her. I didn’t need to. I’d been over that ground so often, I knew every inch of it. I’d worn a path.

I blinked at her. She was waiting for something. I wasn’t going to give it to her.

“Is there a question in there?” I asked.

The other therapists jumped in. “No. I think Doreen’s just a making a point.”

I said nothing. I arranged my features into my yoga-teacher face.

Doreen nodded sagely, her voice softening, but her expression was triumphant. “Parenting is hard,” she said.

I sighed. “Is he in this language camp or not?”

It turns out that Kai COULD attend a class, four days a week, $150 dollars a day.

“Can my ABA therapist be involved?” I asked.

Doreen shook her head. “Oh, no. We don’t believe in ABA.”*

I felt her humming with anticipation. She wanted me to debate her, to challenge her. She tried to put me on rocky ground so she could bash my choices. She wanted me to believe that I had screwed up at every turn, but that she, Doreen, had the answer. I gave away nothing, unwilling to be sucked into an argument with a woman who believed she’d won because her name is on the door.

I let that last thing, that comment about ABA, hang there like a fart. Finally, I stood up.

Doreen shook my hand and offered her parting shot.

“Nice to meet you, Judy.”

:::

I didn't have to like them, I thought. I just have to like the program for Kai.

:::

Last night I played a game of hide and seek with Kai which took place entirely in the bathroom.

“Where’s Mommy?” he asked. “Is she in the potty?”

When it was my turn to seek, I called out, “Ready or not, here I come!” I looked around the bathroom, but I didn’t see him. I wondered if he’d left, but I eventually spotted an elbow, the rest of him completely hidden behind the toilet.

“That was a raging awesome hiding place, Kai,” I said.

And it was.

:::

After he went to bed, I sent the following e-mail to Doreen:

Hello, Doreen.

Thank you so much for your time this afternoon.

Kai will not be attending School X this summer. I don't think it's a good fit for him.

All the best going forward,

Megan Judy

:::

Kai drew this family portrait in school today. That's me, third from the left.

* The use of ABA principles and techniques to help persons with autism live happy and productive lives has expanded rapidly in recent years. Today, ABA is widely recognized as a safe and effective treatment for autism. It has been endorsed by a number of state and federal agencies, including the U. S. Surgeon General and the New York State Department of Health. –from autismspeaks.org http://www.autismspeaks.org/whattodo/what_is_aba.php

05/09/2011

“You know what would be awesome on Mother’s Day?” I said to Scott, as he handed me Ryan and got back into bed. “Not getting up at five in the morning to feed the baby.”

Scott chuckled sympathetically. “Maybe next year,” he said.

:::

Some mothers celebrate Mother’s Day with their family, but I celebrated without. We made some brunch reservations and reserved a sitter. This seemed unnatural to the people who asked me what I had on tap for the day.

My decision was underscored and italicized as I was blow drying my hair. Kai was in the bathroom with me, playing in my Drawer of Things That Are Not for Kai. He pulled out my bronzer and, while I was distracted by getting my bangs to kick to the side just so, smeared it all over my white jeans.

“Kai!” I yelled, in a voice that must have carried the emotion of a woman whose jeans have been rendered unwearable while her hair is still wet and she’s already five minutes late for her brunch reservation.

He hung his little head and refused to look at me.

So then, of course, I felt guilty for yelling, and annoyed that I felt guilty, and I had to find another outfit and we were already late and I had nothing to wear and if Kai hadn’t insisted that I help undo a knot in the tethers of his collapsible tunnel while I was trying to take a shower (which took forever because my fingers were wet and also let in all the cold air) I might not even be in this mess.

I felt pretty bad about leaving him with a sitter all day, too, until she texted me to show me this:

Let me be the first to tell you that on a normal Sunday, he would be watching Spongebob all day while Scott and I took turns running errands, so this was better than me being home. And I was thus free to enjoy myself.

We had lobster benedict and champagne, and I got a card that had this written on the envelope:

And it was the awesomest envelope that anyone, anywhere has ever received.

:::

Scott and I took advantage of our temporary freedom to do a little shopping on Michigan Avenue, which we don’t call the Mag Mile because we live here, FYI. I wanted to go to Neiman Marcus to drool over the shoes.

“You have great taste,” the salesman said to me.

I turned the shoe I was holding over to look at the price. $2,995.

I smiled and shrugged, replacing the shoe on the shelf. “Maybe one day,” I said.

He smiled in what he must have thought was a sympathetic manner, but was really kind of patronizing. “What makes them so expensive,” he explained, with the kind of voice I use for small children, “is that they’re made from alligator skin.”

“Hmmmm.” I said, in a kind of noncommittal way.

“Maybe someone will buy them for you one day,” he said.

It occurred to me to be offended by his blatant sexism.

“Maybe one day I’ll buy them myself,” I said, rather crisply.

He gave a little laugh. “Sure. Spread it out over a few credit cards. Your husband will never know.”

Asshole, I thought. As though I couldn’t work for them. How does he know I’m not a doctor? Maybe I’ll get my book published. Or win the lottery. And, now that I think about it, if I could afford a pair of $3,000 shoes, is that what I would spend my money on? Would I not be better served with one pair of more modestly priced shoes, and buy shoes for all of the children in Haiti with the rest of that money? Or some ABA therapy for Kai? Or a mortgage payment? And what was this guy’s problem, anyway?

Scott came up at that moment. “See anything you want?”

I answered him honestly.

“No,” I said.

:::

In the dressing room at Club Monaco, I realized that the X and the triangle that Kai had drawn on my arm were still there, because in the whole frenzy of getting ready and the tunnel-knot incident, I’d forgotten about it, and I sat through brunch in a sleeveless top with a big X on my tricep, and a triangle around my elbow, undoubtedly highlighting my dry skin.

:::

We finished our afternoon with some champagne at Pops, which was awesome and indulgent if devastatingly overpriced, and I lamented the fact that I’d told the sitter we’d be home by 6.

“Remember before we had kids, and we could just do whatever we wanted?” I asked.

Scott tucked his wallet into his jacket. “Yes. Yes I do.”

I put on my coat.

“You know,” he said. “It wasn’t better. It was just different.”

I fingered my card, tucked into my purse, with the sprawling word, “MOM” on it. A single word, three letters that, in this particular arrangement, written by this particular person, were everything to me.

We walked outside, into the late afternoon sunshine, hailed a cab, and went home.

05/06/2011

In addition to the language development, Kai’s been working on social interaction, things like taking turns. Our speech therapist taught him how to play hide and seek. I heard them doing it last week during their session.

“Emily!” Kai called out. “Where are you?”

Her name is actually Kelly, but who’s counting?

Kelly suggested that I play hide and seek with him as homework, and the first thing I noticed is that he is really, really bad at hide and seek.

He doesn’t hide. He just goes into another room and sits there, giggling uncontrollably, until I find him. I find this so cute that it actually hurts.

“Ready or not, here I come!” I call, to fits of laughter.

“Are you in the bathroom?” I ask, opening the door. “No…”

I can hear Kai giggling in Ryan’s room.

“Are you in the closet?” I ask.

More giggling.

“No.”

I open Ryan’s door, to find Kai sitting in her rocking chair. “Oh! There you are!” I say, and Kai squeals with delight.

When Kai counts, he peaks through his fingers and he counts really fast. “One, two, threefourfivesixseveneightninetenhereIcome!”

“Mommy, where are you?” he calls out in his four-year-old’s sing-song falsetto.

“Are you in the cup?” he asks.

That’s right, he looked for me in a cup. I told you he was really bad at this.

“Are you Elliott?” he asks, as though rather than hiding, I have transfigured myself into a dog.

“No,” he says, after an amount of investigation.

“Are you Potato Head?”

“No.”

Sometimes he forgets he’s playing hide and seek, and goes to the kitchen to play with his helicopter toy or eat some popcorn.

:::

“Mommy,” he said, gesturing out the window, “Wook! A raincloud. A raining! All clean!”

He came over to the computer and grabbed my hand. “Let’s go, Mommy.”

He led me over to the window. “Wook! A little nimmiss.”

I looked out. Trees against a darkening sky.

“A what?” I asked.

“A little nimmiss!”

Nimmiss? Nimintz? Menace? Numbers?

“Numbers?”

He gestured outside. “Not numbers! Nimmiss. A little nimmiss.”

I knelt beside him. “Show me,” I said, and he pointed again.

“Nimmiss!” He looked up at me. I saw disappointment etched around his clear, blue eyes and he knew. He knew I didn’t understand what he was saying. And he so, so wanted me to see.

He pointed across the room to the TV. iCarly was on. “Carly,” he said. He pronounces it Car-wee. “And Sam. And Spencer.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s Carly, Sam and Spencer.”

“Yes!” he said, clearly glad that the wheels of communication were still in motion. He gestured once more outside. “A little nimmiss!”

My heart broke a little bit. I put my hand on his head, running my fingers through his hair.

“I see it, Monkeyman. A little nimmiss.”

He smiled. “A little nimmiss.”

:::

It takes him a long time to find me. You know, because I actually hide, as opposed to sitting in Ryan’s chair and laughing, ahem. I was behind a chair in the living room, my chin resting on the back of it so he could see my face.

He walked into the living room.

“Mommy, where are you?” he sang.

His eyes scanned the room, and when he finally saw me, his face split into a huge grin. “Mommy! There you are! Behind the chair!”

He ran toward me, his laughter pealing like bells. He crawled up into the chair so we were face to face.

“You found me, Monkeyman,” I said. “Awesome job.”

He kissed me. “MMMMwah.”

He jumped down and ran toward Ryan’s room. “Kai’s turn to hide,” he said.

:::

After he went to bed, I mulled over the whole nimmiss thing. There was something, a flicker of something about it.

Sky. Raincloud. Nimmiss. Nimbus. And then I had it.

Kai has seen the movie Up like five million times. The scene where Russell and Mr. Frederickson are floating in the house and they run into the rainstorm.